


Fragment

by DmitriDesgoffeUndTaxis



Category: The Grand Budapest Hotel (2014)
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Childhood Trauma, Dark Past, Dysfunctional Family, Family Issues, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Origin Story, Other, Psychological Horror, Psychological Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-27
Updated: 2014-10-27
Packaged: 2018-02-22 20:18:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2520473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DmitriDesgoffeUndTaxis/pseuds/DmitriDesgoffeUndTaxis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This specific (and very dark) story takes place during Dmitri's childhood years in Schloß Lutz, detailing a harrowing event occurring in his early youth (as per my imaging, of course) at the hands of one of his mother's various beaus. It is meant to be a horrifying quasi-origin tale to partly explain the obviously overflowing well of rage that is adult Dmitri, but also grants a brief insight into the dynamic of the relationships (or, more aptly put, lack thereof) between the various members of the immediate Desgoffe-und-Taxis clan, shadows of which we can observe in the film, but which I try to paint with a more detailed brush. (It's also very original content-y, considering it takes place so early in his life, and we are given almost no information on it--but it expresses a continuum as far as my major Dmitri work goes).</p><p>It is an attempt to grant Dmitri further complexity in the incarnation of my works, meaning it obviously doesn't necessarily apply to the canonical version of the character. The story itself was quite difficult to pen and is rather grim, so the proper warnings are given. Though it is not explicit in its vocabulary, the subject matter is sensitive. I offer advanced apologies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fragment

The hallowed halls of Schloß Lutz resonated with the soft, rhythmic echo of a bouncing red ball, the light pitter-patter of a set of young footsteps adding to the upbeat noise which starkly contrasted with the usual piercing silence of the medieval manor. 

It was a pleasant midsummer afternoon, the weather being unusually breezy for the season (compared to the sometimes humid climate of summertime Lutz). Bright rays of sunlight managed to peek through dark velvet curtains, illuminating the long, narrow passageways with a gentle glow as the raven-haired owner of the ball happily bounced his toy against the dark cherrywood floor, softly humming a Zubrowkan children's song as he skipped along. 

“Dmitri!” A sharply shrill voice emanating from the Schloß Lutz library suddenly disrupted the young boy's harmonious idyll.

The small child (aged six) rose to attention, pale grey eyes widening in surprise at the sound of his name. He immediately ceased his play and directed himself to the library. 

“Yes, mother?” Dmitri emerged, cradling the small ball in his arms. 

“Stop that insufferable noise at once!” The owner of the sharp voice, Madame Céline Desgoffe-und-Taxis, sternly commanded, taking a sip of her Chardonnay. “Gilbert and I are trying to converse.” 

Dmitri looked to his mother, whose aging face bore a stony expression, velvety red lips tightly pursed in disapproval. 

“Yes, mother.” He bowed, his boyish voice lowering to convey apology. 

Mme. Desgoffe-und-Taxis did not acknowledge him further, returning to her prior exchange with M. Gilbert Herbert, her latest boyfriend and invited guest. 

“It's just...” Dmitri unwisely uttered, once again intervening in their discussion to express his distress. “I'm bored. I've no one to play with.” 

He clutched the red ball to his chest, glancing up at his mother. 

“And what do you want me to do about that?” She harshly replied, huffing with impatience. “Why don't you go see if your sisters want to play with you?” 

“They never want to play with me.” Dmitri sighed, exasperated. “They're always playing card games and they never let me have a turn.” 

Mme. Desgoffe-und-Taxis rolled her eyes in annoyance, resenting her young son for having butted into what she considered to be a highly pleasant afternoon up until that point. 

“Maybe...” His small fingers nervously dug into the smooth surface of his toy. “I thought, if it's alright with you, I could stay here and read for a little bit?” 

He watched for a reaction from his mother, his prospects not looking too favourable. 

“Absolute--” Mme. Céline started, her complaint impeded from completion.

“I don't see why not.” M. Herbert stated, a bemused grin etching itself upon his rosy face as he eyed the dark-haired boy. “If he promises to be quiet as a good boy should, darling, I think he could stay.” 

Mme. Céline shot daggers at M. Herbert (she despised spending any sum of time with her children, especially her youngest, whom she considered naught but a bothersome insect), but conceded to his will, wishing not to fall out of favour with him.

“Alright, Dmitri.” She said reluctantly, her glacier-blue gaze piercing her son with absolute loathing. “You may stay here with us for a while, but I better not hear any noise coming from you, or you will be dealt with accordingly.” 

The inference, of course, was to the pine switch she often used to discipline her children—an instrument they grew to fear well into adulthood. 

Dmitri flinched at the subtle mention of the pine switch, his small body growing instantly rigid. 

“I won't make any noise.” He confirmed, excusing himself from their presence and bouncing over to the rather small children's section of the library, which contained a humble collection of books gifted to the Desgoffe-und-Taxis by various members of the extended family, usually upon the occasion of one of the progeny's birthdays. 

After a few moments of perusing the glossy covers of several books, Dmitri settled upon a handsome, gold filigreed book bound in Japanese paper, illustrated in hand-drawn ink. It was a custom publication, commissioned by his mother's half-brother (once-removed), Gregor Lagerfeld, for Dmitri's 5th birthday. 

Book in hand, Dmitri walked to the red armchair located at the furthermost end of the library, placing as much distance as possible between himself and the two other inhabitants sharing the common space. He curled up in the spacious chair--the only piece of furniture he found comfortable or inviting in the otherwise severely furnished space--his ivory legs (despite being rather long for his age) dangling from the edge, hovering several inches above the ground. 

A small, bony hand grasped the front cover of the book, which featured a winsome pastel-coloured drawing of a tiny black rabbit walking amidst the breeze of a sunlit garden, an azure swallow flying towards the sky in the distance. 

The golden letters of the book's cover blazed against seeping rays of sunlight as he turned it, revealing the book's title: “The Laughing Winds.”

His steel-grey eyes pored over the volume, reading its contents with marked interest.

The story itself, he found, was heavily illustrated and rather brief (contained in the text which follows): 

“A young little black rabbit was skipping through a farmer's garden during a warm summer day, a rustling gust swaying the varied array of wildly coloured flowers decking the field as he navigated the scenery, curiously spying his surroundings. 

He happily embarked on his bouncing trek, playfully chasing a baby-blue butterfly as it fluttered past him, stopping only when he spotted a market-bound wagon housing a caged calf, the bovine mooing mournfully as she struggled to move within the confines of her cage. 

'What are you doing there, little calf?' The black rabbit asked, curiously tilting his head. 'Why are you in a cage?'

The calf shed a fat tear, her dull eyes filled with dread as she stomped helplessly. 

'I'm here because I'm going to the market...' the calf replied, black lashes matted with the wet residue of her tears. 

'The market?' The rabbit repeated, his ears pointing with interest. 

'Yes, the market.' The calf echoed, her voice strained with sorrow. 

'What is a market?' The ebony rabbit asked. It was clear to the calf that he had never head of a farmer's market, being a wild animal who belonged in the forest. 

'It's a horrible place...' The calf continued, nuzzling her head against the cold wrought-iron bars in search of nonexistent comfort during what she perceived to be her last moments. 'The market is where the farmer takes you to get sold, and after you get sold you get turned into steak.' 

'Steak?' The little rabbit furrowed a brow, not quite following the calf, but deducing from the tone of her voice that steak was not something pleasant. 

'Yes, steak.' She trembled, dreading the inevitable moment of her unnatural transformation. 

'What is steak?' The rabbit asked again, lowering his head in advanced apology for placing the calf in further distress.

'I don't know!' The calf answered, shutting her eyes and shaking her head in disgust. 'But whatever it is, I know it's something I don't want to be! I'm happy being a calf, eating grass all day and rolling in the meadows! I don't want to be steak!'

She emitted a faint moo as the cart began to roll, her visage drifting further out of the black rabbit's view as a soaring swallow clouded the midday sun. 

'Wait, little calf!' The rabbit hollered, trying his best to keep up with the pace of the wooden cart as it began its journey to the market, but being too slow to catch up with the horse-drawn vehicle. 

The little black rabbit looked on sadly as the calf disappeared from his view, hoping against hope that she would not become the dreaded steak. 

He could not help, however, but be relieved he was born a rabbit and not a calf, innocently resuming his skipping across the flowered hillside which led to the forest he called home. 'After all,' he thought as he took in the suffused fragrance of some nearby violets, 'a rabbit could never become steak.'

He spent the afternoon playing in the forest, but eventually wandered from it, enticed by the chase of a palpitating moth as it flew towards the outskirts of a cabbage field. 

The blazing orange backdrop of the setting sun contrasted sharply against the dull green sea of cabbages, the small rabbit joyfully chasing the tiny moths gathered around the garden to the melodious sound of crickets. 

The sky's hues waned to a rich plum colour, night swiftly ushering the bright white moon and shimmering stars as the sun faded entirely out of view, the moths receding into their garden whilst the small rabbit shivered, its soft fur moved by a brisk evening breeze. 

He decided it was time to return to the forest, having spent the entire day playing, the midday meeting with the crying calf entirely effaced from his mind as he hopped in the grass, dispersing lightning bugs which shone like stars in the still field. 

Suddenly, however, a harrowing howl echoed from the distance, its presence alarming the young rabbit. He picked up his pace, swiftly skipping as far away from the sound as he could, but to his horror, a large brown hunting dog appeared, taking the rabbit's frail form betwixt its teeth and pressing until the struggling little rabbit ceased movement. 

A grey-haired hunter sporting a red hunting cap emerged from the forest shortly therafter, patting the dog for a job well done and gathering the little rabbit's carcass in his hairy hand. 

'He'll make for a nice entree at some rich folks' dinner, don't you think?' The hunter remarked to his salivating dog, the nighttime wind cackling as it crackled against the forest's trees.”

Dmitri set the book upon his lap, not knowing quite what to make of it (he had never previously read it, despite it being presented to him as a gift). 

Meanwhile, Mme. Desgoffe-und-Taxis giggled as she dipped into her third glass of Chardonnay, spiritedly chatting with M. Herbert, who constantly stole glances at Dmitri, his blue eyes glinting as he observed the latter absentmindedly swinging his ivory-white leg against the red velvet of the chair, entirely absorbed in his book. 

“Did you finish that whole book all by yourself?” M. Herbert spoke, ignoring Mme. Céline in favour of addressing Dmitri, much to the woman's irritation. 

“Yes, Mr. Herbert,” He shrugged, warily eyeing the relative stranger (they had been formally introduced before, but the increased frequency of his presence in the house was novel happening). “It was mostly pictures.” 

“I see.” M. Herbert stroked his blond moustache, his thick fingertips caressing the corners of his lip as he looked upon the boy. “But I've told you before, Dmitri. There's no need to be so formal. You can call me Gilbert.”

Dmitri's eyes darted to the side at this remark, instantly deciding there was no way in Hell this would ever be the case—he had a shy and formal manner around adults, which would never permit for such casual reference. Furthermore, he did not much favour M. Herbert, whom he looked upon as a stifling nuisance and was secretly jealous of, given the fact he received so much of his mother's attention (as opposed to him and his three sisters, who were destined since birth to be the servants' chore to look after). 

Mme. Céline clutched Herbert's hand, attempting to divert his attention from her son, being the vain, needy, narcissistic woman she always was. 

“Dmitri!” She called to the small boy as she caressed the man's hairy hand, her pearl necklace shining ominously as she looked down upon him. “Why don't you be a dear and let Gilbert and I have some time alone. I think we've entertained you enough for the day...”

Dmitri dared not defy his mother, especially given the ice-cold tone of her voice, painfully evident to him even at six years of age. At the behest of this thinly veiled order, he placed the borrowed book back in its shelf and promptly exited the library, unwittingly leaving his red ball behind. 

“I swear, that kid will be the death of me...” Mme. Céline huffed, locking the door as soon as Dmitri crossed its threshold and returning to her seat at M. Herbert's side, picking up their exchange precisely where it left off. 

*****

Several hours passed since the incident at the Schloß Lutz library, seeing Dmitri spending the interim between midday and evening in varied company. He shadowed his favourite caretaker, Amélie, during most of the afternoon, the latter taking a reprieve from her other duties to compile a castle from coloured wooden blocks with him until she was called to assist with the preparation of dinner.

Once robbed of her company, Dmitri wandered the vast halls of Schloß Lutz, briefly conversing with an array of passing servants along the way (or rather, being resigned to do as such, being the only child his age within the walls of the old mansion) until he was summoned to the table for dinner by the family butler, a thinly moustached man named Antoine X.

The course for that evening, the butler announced, would consist of Hasenpfeffer (a rabbit dish), accompanied by asparagus in a thick, creamy sauce. Once it reached completion, the meal was promptly presented to the awaiting family. 

Laetizia, Carolina, and Marguerite were seated alongside each other (as always, the three sisters being practically inseparable), with Mme. Desgoffe-und-Taxis settling on the other side of the table. Dmitri and M. Herbert occupied the two opposing ends of the structure, young Dmitri being the furthest from the clan (a space of two empty chairs placing due distance between himself and his mother). 

Each member of the family plus the invited guest was served a generously sized portion of the night's dish, Laetizia being the first to taste the decadent meal (she had always been rather on the fuller side, having a fondness of food unsurpassed by any other in the family).

Dmitri simply stared at his meal, a faint feeling of nausea settling in his stomach as he examined the cooked rabbit, remembering the story he had read hours earlier. 

“What's wrong, Dmitri?” M. Herbert asked, arching a blond brow, keenly watching the young boy on the other side of the table. “You look like you've seen a ghost.”

Dmitri didn't answer, merely continuing to stare into his plate, his face growing paler by the second. 

“Don't be rude, you little brat!” Mme. Céline snapped at the boy, breaking him from his trance. “Answer him or I'll tell Carolina to get the pine switch!”

The threat was enough to rouse Dmitri from his troubled thoughts. 

“I don't think one should eat rabbits.” He stated, looking down.

“Why not?” Herbert inquired, skewering the Hasenpfeffer with his fork and taking a hearty bite. “I've always had a preference for tender little rabbits.” 

Dmitri shuddered in horror at Herbert's remark, pushing his plate aside. 

“Rabbit is something one normally eats, is it not?” Mme. Desgoffe-und-Taxis scoffed at her young son, placing her hand on Herbert's lap from under the table as the latter drenched his asparagus with the sauce. 

“Yes, darling...” He let out a soft, barely audible moan as she caressed him, his slick eyes set squarely on Dmitri. 

The remainder of dinner ensued in the midst a tense silence, with everyone at the table save for Dmitri finishing their meal before dispersing once again. 

Mme. Céline and M. Gilbert returned to the aged confines of the prestigious manor's library, where they continued to empty their bottle of white wine, smoking from slim cigarettes as they chattered further. 

Dmitri reluctantly followed his sisters to the terrace, where the latter three alternated between perusing piles of women's fashion magazines and playing a series of card games, Dmitri yawning with evident boredom, shunned from their affairs. 

The sky was overcast and starless that evening, the ebony-haired boy noted, the pale moon's iridescent rays failing to reach him from the haze of grey clouds heralding a summertime storm.

Half an hour later, Amélie appeared upon the terrace, her blonde hair swaying in the evening breeze as she fetched little Dmitri from the corner of the stone structure. 

“It's time for bed, Dmitri,” She affectionately cooed to the child, taking his small hand in hers as she walked him to his room. 

It was customary for Amélie to put Dmitri to bed by reciting a bedtime story, which she produced entirely from memory this night. She fed him a sweet dessert of lemon-lavender scones with accompanying glass of warm, honeyed milk before tucking him in his bed and tenderly telling him of her days as a young girl frolicking in the French lavender fields of Provence (which she swore she'd take him to see someday, noting the boy's sparkling eyes in reaction to her story). 

Dmitri seamlessly drifted into sleep as Amélie stepped from the room, sunlit lavender gardens conjured in his mind's eye as he imagined himself alongside her in the fabled Provence, fetching a thousand little stalks of lavender from which to produce delicious scones. 

His idyllic state of dreaming continued unperturbed until a sudden hail of raindrops violently beat against his windowpane, dark clouds engulfing the dusky sky in their chaos amidst a mercilessly howling wind, diverging completely from the calm image of his dream. 

He nestled himself within his blankets (he was deathly afraid of storms), valiantly attempting to lull himself back to sleep despite the descending obscurity, a dull creak creeping from the periphery of his door.

A shadowy figure slowly approached the sleepy boy from within the opening, the latter at first thinking it a ghost and trembling in his bed as its abysmal presence drew nearer. Precarious lightning revealed the presumed specter to be none other than M. Gilbert Herbert, however, as a blinding flash illuminated the room.

“I came to return your ball,” The man evoked a pretext for his presence in a hoarse voice, releasing the red toy and climbing onto Dmitri's bed as the ball bounced faintly upon the floor. 

“W-what are you doing?!” Dmitri exclaimed in evident alarm, trying to lay as far away from the panting invader as his bed allowed. 

“Be still, Dmitri.” Herbert clasped Dmitri's thin arm in a sinister vice grip before the boy could hope to make an escape. “Your mother is sleeping.” 

The raven-haired boy struggled wildly to release himself from the man's clutches, but found himself easily overpowered by the much-stronger Herbert, who cast him an oily glance as he pinned him onto the bed. 

Dmitri flailed helplessly whilst the man hovered above him, his steel-grey eyes widening with dismay as the pervert grazed him with his beefy lips, choking on the nauseating stench of alcohol emanating from the moustached mouth as a hairy hand coarsely wandered down his slim, lily-white torso. A surge of panic pulsed through his shivering body as he vainly tussled in protest, the fortitude of his movements faltering as his mind drifted from the present terror in realization he was waging a losing battle. 

Relinquishing all will to fight, he instead focused his dull grey gaze on the ceiling, looking past the haze of Herbert's grunting form, imagining himself to be somewhere else, wishing he were someone else. 

Perhaps, he thought, his pallid skin tingling as his senses numbed, he was not really in Lutz, but in Provence. He gasped, seeking refuge from the crashing waves of his relentless reality in the consolation of this fiction, closing his heavy eyes and labouring to extract an entire ocean of swaying lavender fields in richest shades of purple, exactly as the ones sweet Amélie spoke of hours prior to the current torture. 

Dmitri longed for absolutely anybody to come barging through that dreaded door as Herbert's sweltering form opaqued him in a suffocating embrace—a salvation which never came. Finding himself incapable of speech, he buoyed between consciousness and fantasy, lifting his gaze further into the whitewashed ceiling and retreating into a world of his own fabrication upon each thrusting resurgence—a world filled with vast seas of sweet-smelling lavender and fluttering butterflies, a world where Gilbert Herbert could never hope to touch him. 

The transpiring minutes felt like an infernal eternity to Dmitri, who laid matted and motionless upon his mattress, resembling a strewn rag doll as his lifeless eyes transfixed themselves upon the blank infinity of the ceiling. 

An ice-cold chill ran down his spine as Herbert caressed the wan contour of his tear-strained cheek, bringing a portion of the boy's traumatized mind back to the bed whereupon his innocence was shed.

“You better not tell anyone about tonight, darling...” The sweating swine of a man purred into the boy's ear, retreating from his carcass with sick satisfaction. 

Dmitri looked on hollowly in disgusted disbelief, a dull ache pulsating through the body he felt was no longer his own.

“If you breathe a single word of this, I'll make sure your mother beats you to death with that special little pine switch,” Herbert threatened, buttoning his trousers. “And you know she will, because she loves me more than she loves you.”

The young boy's frame gave an involuntary flinch at the criminal's cruel utterance, quivering as he heaved a rushing stream of vomit upon his bed.

“Moreover,” The pervert's perspiring palm gripped the brass door handle. “If you were to tell anyone, do you know what that would make you?”

The man remorselessly continued despite the lack of response on Dmitri's frozen part, the broken child tearfully crumpling into a cocoon of blankets, no longer merely terrified of thunder. 

“It would make you a fucking faggot.” Herbert bellowed, exiting the room, his final words resounding throughout the hollowed darkness as he shut the door.

**Author's Note:**

> (The calf portion of the little story that Dmitri reads is based on the song "Dona Dona" by Arthur Kevess & Teddi Schwartz, the bunny parts are my own composition).


End file.
